Talk
by fighting-john-watsons-war
Summary: It would get better, for a bit - he'd be comprehending more things, understanding a bit more of his surroundings - but it wasn't long before something else cropped up that would bring him to his knees. Joint authorship with PhoenixFlame123


Who knew how long it had been since it all began? Well,_ ended_ really, but that's beside the point. John certainly didn't know anymore. Ever since his best mate had thrown himself from the top of St. Bart's, John had blocked out anything and everything that would remind him of that day.

Unfortunately, as he still lived in 221B Baker Street, that was easier said than done. Now, most of the days seemed to blend and blur together in a weird sort of haze. He was having trouble distinguishing up from down - sometimes literally.

It would get better, for a bit - he'd be comprehending more things, understanding a bit more of his surroundings - but it wasn't long before something else cropped up that would bring him to his knees.

_Oh brother I can't, I can't get through_  
_I've been trying hard to reach you, cause I don't know what to do_  
_Oh brother I can't believe it's true_  
_I'm so scared about the future and I wanna talk to you_  
_Oh I wanna talk to you_

John knew that Sherlock was gone. Obviously. But sometimes when his phone buzzed, he would flash back to the old days for just a minute.

_ "If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH"_

No matter how much he had grumbled - _can't he do anything without me_ - he had always gone. Was there ever any doubt?

_You can take a picture of something you see_  
_In the future where will I be?_******  
**

There was literally no point to his existence. As long as Sherlock was around, there was some sort of case, a game, a chase, something going on, people being antagonized, _something_.

But now, 221B was as dead as the grave - and he couldn't shake the image of the imposing black tombstone, unadorned and stately just as its owner, and holding back those inevitable tears was the hardest thing he'd ever done. There was no escaping it. Not even in his mind.

Of course, he didn't want to_ forget_, because then he'd forget Sherlock along with it, and he most certainly didn't want _that_ to happen.

Sometimes he could almost hear the whispered strains of a violin.******  
**  
_You can climb a ladder up to the sun_  
_Or write a song nobody has sung_  
_Or do something that's never been done******  
**_

Sherlock had always been incredible. Amazing. Anyone who knew him - even Anderson and Donovan - had to admit that. John had always been a bit in awe. Sherlock was so much more than a man, and yet - he was a machine at the same time, and that's a big reason this hurt so much, wasn't it?_ John had called his best friend nothing more than a machine pretending to be something he wasn't. A hunk of metal with a iron heart. Nothing more._

Yes, Sherlock was typically against emotions other than eagerness for the thrill of the chase, but - there was still humanity in him, had to be. John had seen it first-hand. Seen his humanity. Sherlock had done a very good job of keeping that under wraps, the only _vulnerable_ thing about him - but sometimes he'd slip up, show the compassion he had always sworn never existed, or occasionally he'd be childlike and sulk. He was definitely a force to be reckoned with on the best days, but...it was there. Always hidden.

_Are you lost or incomplete?_  
_Do you feel like a puzzle, you can't find your missing piece?_  
_Tell me how do you feel?_  
_Well I feel like they're talking in a language I don't speak_  
_And they're talking it to me__******  
**_

Everyone, even Mrs. Hudson, was stepping around him like broken glass. They talked to him slowly, condescendingly, like he was a child. Before, he would have been as irritated as all get-out; but now...he just didn't care. Lestrade was his only regular visitor, came around once a week - he never mentioned a specific reason, but John knew it just the same: _he thinks I would off myself._

He'd always laugh a bit uneasily at it - _how ridiculous. I've still got life left in me_ - but he still couldn't shake the feeling that everyone could see through the feeble barriers he tried so hard to construct, like Sherlock was so good at - but that was different. He knew that Sherlock was really the best thing in his life - but what did he have now? He was just an ex-army doctor, dried up and injured, lusting after the (inexplicable comfort of the) battlefield.

Pathetic.

The only reason he had ever entered the world of the London Yarders was because of a high functioning sociopath that had a penchant for trouble - he clearly didn't fit around anymore. He never had. It was all for Sherlock they had let him stay, he knew it, they knew it. Because no matter how much they had hated Sherlock, were repulsed by him, they had needed him, and Sherlock and John were a package deal. Where did he belong now? No one knew, least of all him.

Was it so bad that he got a savage kind of pleasure seeing the guilty looks on the faces of Anderson and Donovan? They had driven Sherlock to kill himself (he was no fraud, but still, that's what people believed was the cause) and therefore driven John to become a shadow.

He knew it, they knew it.

_Sometimes it would be easier to die._

_So you take a picture of something you see_  
_In the future where will I be?_  
_You can climb a ladder up to the sun_  
_Or a write a song nobody has sung_  
_Or do something that's never been done_  
_Do something that's never been done******  
**_

Sherlock Holmes was brilliant. Sherlock Holmes was _extraordinary_. John, on the other hand, just... wasn't. Wasn't fantastic, wasn't amazing, just _wasn't_. Sherlock couldn't have died, it defied everything John had learned about the man - yet John was here,_ alive_, and Sherlock was six feet under a cold tombstone. It was completely backwards and completely incomprehensible.

How did he survive Moriarty's onslaught when the better man did not?

_So you don't know were you're going, and you wanna talk_  
_And you feel like you're going where you've been before_  
_You tell anyone who'll listen but you feel ignored_  
_Nothing's really making any sense at all_  
_Let's talk, let's ta-a-alk_  
_So, _  
_Let's talk, let's ta-a-alk__******  
**_

John had forgotten what it meant to be alone.

And with that, he had finally discovered the purpose of that demented old skull Sherlock had kept on hand, just in case.

He needed a friend, and it was easy to superimpose an image of someone over the old bone in his mind. It was always Sherlock - who else could it be? He might have been crazy to do it, but he understood now that loneliness was too much. If Sherlock - the man that had no boundaries - couldn't take the oppressive silence, God only knew he wouldn't be able to.

_"Sherlock, Lestrade came by again today. He looks like hell. Has ever since you left."_

_"Don't suppose you'd want a cuppa? I know, two sugars, don't yap at me."_

_"Donovan apologized today, can you believe it? She made an honest-to-goodness mistake and didn't cover it up - she apologized!"_

Those sessions usually ended in a bout of hysterical laughter.

_ Heisgoneheisgoneheisgone._

All John wanted was his best mate to pull off one last miracle. Just for him, one last miracle.

If anyone could do it, Sherlock could.

And then once he was back, they could talk.

_ But he can't come back._

_ He's dead._

John began to cry.******  
**

* * *

Thousands of miles away, a red-headed man with sharp, angular features and an unhealthy shade of white skin gazed towards England. Towards home, where there was always someone to talk to.

He still wasn't used to his hair. How much time since he had changed his whole person, now, and how was_ that_ still the thing that bothered him the most? He huffed in slight frustration at the ridiculously bright shade of red that now adorned the top of his head; he knew he looked ridiculous - not that anyone else would understand...

John would. He'd laugh at him. In a good way, though, and it would just be -

He drew a sharp intake of breath and blinked, tilting his head downwards._ Now, that won't do, will it?_

But he liked allowing himself to remember sometimes, when there was nothing left to do but wait and waiting was always so incredibly _dull_ -

_Stop it. You did this for him. You did this for them._

But mostly for him.

It was Sherlock's life or John's. Sherlock, who could never seem to say the right thing. John, the one people liked listening to. Sherlock, the mad scientist who was stubborn and arrogant and self-righteous. John, the humble, compassionate warrior who always came through for other people. Everyone - and probably even Mycroft - preferred John. That was okay. Sometimes it hurt, but then he remembered that John was _his_ and no one else's and _preferred him_ over everyone else and eventually calmed down.

Sherlock Holmes would not survive in a world without John. For that matter, he wouldn't really want to. So his choice was clear. John's pain would clear up eventually, slowly fade into vague memories. Of course, that only reminded Sherlock that there _would_ be pain - it almost broke his resolve. He never wanted to hurt John, furthest thing from it! But if _anything_ was off - the world was a stage, and lives depended on John playing his part well. Better than well, flawlessly. There had to be enough time to untangle the web, and if too many people knew the truth he _knew_ there wouldn't be. Everything had to be genuine, and -

_No one but me is that good an actor. And I'm dead._

Nevertheless, he didn't regret it. It was necessary. He had done the right thing - had he? Yes, yes, of course he had._ Now_, of all times, wasn't the time for double-guessing. He was so close, so very close.

_Soon it will be over._

_Soon we can talk._

Sherlock Holmes picked up a large pebble, turned it over in his hand thrice, and closed his fist tightly around it. He whispered a quick prayer to the God he didn't believe in before throwing it over his shoulder, where it splished into a lake and skipped once, twice, three times and again.

The last word hung like a promise in the dense fog of the early morning.

_Soon._

* * *

**Goes hand in hand with Missing You. **

***Lyrics from Coldplay***

**Joint project with PhoenixFlame123**


End file.
